


Run Home

by MelyndaR



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2015-01-07
Packaged: 2018-03-06 11:36:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3132971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelyndaR/pseuds/MelyndaR
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set while Emily is in Paris: She's supposed to be dead, and she feels like she's dying. She's running from things, when all she wants to do is run home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Run Home

CHEETO BREATH HAS LOGGED OFF

The words that I daily dread pop up on the screen. I sigh and swivel away from the computer. JJ has a million other things to do besides play online scrabble, I know, but it's what keeps me sane.

A new life. That's what they had told me I was getting when I woke up at the hospital in Boston. I laugh dryly now, the sound filling the hollow parts of the room, of this apartment in Paris that I hate, but not of my heart. It seems more like another way to kill me, this one slower, more painful than anything that even Ian Doyle could have conjured up.

Here in Paris, I have all the money that I need to live comfortably currently sitting in the bank. Back in D.C., I would have loved the idea, but here it only means that since I have no reason to get a job, I – unlike JJ – have nothing to do all day. But sit here, in this awful, God-forsaken apartment. And die slowly.

My eyes roam over to the kitchenette, to the knife holder on the counter, to the large steel knives it contains. Not for the first time, I think about picking up one of those knives and doing something to make myself die quickly instead. Unlike every time before, I don't think of the pain of that piece of wood inside of me once Ian had stabbed me with it. Instead, I think that I could do it quicker, better, straight into my heart. I wonder if I would feel it there before I die.

I need to get out of this apartment; something in me suddenly manages to realize this. I need to get some sun, just  _do_ something, before I do something else – something irreversible and highly regrettable.

I pull on tennis shoes that I haven't even worn before and I go for a run, not caring where I'm going, just that I go.

As I pound the pavement I realize that there is a certain symbolism to my chosen activity. I am running, not only to be out in the sun, but to get away. Get away from the memories – both the good ones and the bad ones – and the demons. I have begun to fear them all with equal fervor. They are each just as painful as the others.

But there is a price to be paid by doing this. Because, while the demons and memories that haunt me seem to be ever nearer, the good things start to slip away. Penelope's smile. Derek's laughter. The look in Reid's eyes as he rattles off a statistic. Every member of my team, of my family – for they will always, no matter what, be mine – they are starting to fade. And, even when thinking of them hurts, I'm not quite sure that I want them  _gone_.

I need them. Even when they are a thousand miles away – I can hear Reid now, correcting me, telling me the exact number of miles from Paris to Quantico – I need them to be with me. I miss them so much, almost too much, and it is driving me out of my mind.

But they aren't here. They never will be.

So I continue to run. I run, and I run, and I run. Maybe I think that I'm running to them. Maybe I'm running away from the fact that no matter how long I run, I won't be able to reach them. One way or the other, there's no doubt in my mind that I'm running.

I run until it's dark out, even though I know it's not wise. Now that I'm finally out of that apartment, I can't bear the idea of going back into it. I run until I can't draw another breath, and only then do I finally convince myself to turn around and go back to my home away – very far away – from home.

I'm still breathing heavily when I open the door of my apartment. Over my own breathing, I hear a shrill ringing. Paranoid, my hand moves to the gun that I have always kept in my pocket since leaving Boston and it takes me a moment to realize that the sound is only my phone ringing.

I didn't take the device with me when I left on my run. After all, it hasn't ringed once in seven months, so I didn't bother to consider that it might now.

I approach it warily, desperately wanting to pick it up, halfway afraid to. It could only be one of two people calling me; I haven't given the number to anyone here in Paris. I snatch it up, answering the call on the last ring.

My "hello" – the first word that I have said to another human being in literally at least two days – comes out a little too high, a little too quick, and a little too desperate. But I am desperate.

Hotch's voice sounds to my ears like an angel's as he speaks. He says only five words. For some reason I count them in my head as they come through the phone, like the madwoman that maybe I am. Five small words containing only as many syllables, yet they are the five words that I have so desperately needed to hear.

"It's time to come home."


End file.
